If he opened it and saw the name of someone he didn’t want to encounter—
He rolled his eyes at himself. He had already set foot to a path that was going to lead him places he absolutely didn’t want to go. He’d known that the moment he’d been tossed in Ehrne of Ainneamh’s dungeon—nay, it had been sooner than that. It had been at some point during the shoveling out of Léirsinn’s favorite horse’s stall when the damned nag had tried to bite him. He’d known he was in trouble. The rest had simply been what followed along after trouble was first encountered.
He opened the book and started with the first name written there.
He thought it might turn out to be a very long day.
Nine
Léirsinn leaned against a stall door in a surprisingly luxurious little barn and watched Acair’s horse work his way through his breakfast. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen a horse eat grain that quickly, but the ponies she was accustomed to didn’t . . . well, the truth was, she wasn’t accustomed to the dietary habits of horses who could change their shapes, so what did she know? Sianach might actually be on the reserved side and she was judging him too harshly. At present, he was snorting opinions at her instead of fire, so perhaps that was the best she could hope for.
She shivered and wondered if she might be better served to ask him to spew out a flame or two. She was chilled to the bone, but if she were to be honest there as well, it had absolutely nothing to do with the bitterness of the winter morning surrounding her.
It had everything to do with the book she held in her hands.
She hadn’t come to the barn to read, she’d come to take her mind off things she hadn’t wanted to think about. Difficult, perhaps, to forget about magic and its makers when she found herself firmly ensconced in the home of a witch, but not impossible. A little shoveling of manure and soaking of grain had seemed like the best idea she’d had in days.
Instead, she’d found a book on a stool in the barn, sitting negligently next to tools of her trade. She’d picked it up, of course, because she was absolutely daft. There was no other excuse for it save blaming her damnable curiosity on too much time spent in the company of Acair of Ceangail, who was likely going to meet his end immediately after he poked his nose once too often where it wasn’t meant to go.
Once she’d taken the small volume in hand, there hadn’t been any reason to argue with it when it opened to a particular page she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t help but read.
Gair of Ceangail lived a thousand years before he wed Sarait of Tòrr Dòrainn, youngest of the five daughters of—
She’d shut the book and dropped it back on the stool. It had remained there as she’d tended Acair’s horse, but those words had echoed in her mind like a song with a tune she didn’t particularly care for but couldn’t forget just the same.
She had wanted to know about Gair, hadn’t she?
At the moment, she couldn’t remember why, though she could name at least half a dozen reasons why she didn’t. Unfortunately, all those reasons vanished like a bit of mist after sunrise and she found herself picking the book back up and opening it.
The spell of Diminishing, which could take from a mage every last drop of his power and leave him a mere husk—
She wanted to shut the book, truly she did, but she couldn’t bring herself to. As the innkeeper in Eòlas had said, Gair had been a terribly elegant man but ruthless in his pursuit of power, spells, and elven princesses. He had apparently come to a bad end trying to steal vast amounts of power from some well—
“He’s still alive, you know.”
Léirsinn almost fell over the stall door into what she was absolutely certain was not a pile of clean straw. She picked up the book she’d dropped, then looked at Acair’s mother, who definitely hadn’t been standing next to her a heartbeat before.
“You startled me,” she managed.
“I startle everyone,” Fionne of Fàs said with a shrug. “It’s my stock in trade.” She nodded at the book. “You’re reading about Gair.”
“How did you know?”
“Your expression is an equal mix of horror and fascination. It’s how everyone looks when they read about him.”
“I found this book on that stool over there,” Léirsinn said. “Sitting all on its own.”
The witchwoman of Fàs smiled. “Of course you did, lovey, because I put it there for you. I thought you might be interested in the sources from whence your would-be lover springs. Me, you have to interview all you like. Gair is more difficult to reach.”
“Would-be lover,” Léirsinn repeated faintly. “Ah, we aren’t—”
“Why the hell not? He’s handsome enough, isn’t he?”
Léirsinn wished the woman wasn’t standing in the way of her collapsing on that extremely sturdy stool. She tried leaning against the stall door, but Sianach kept bumping her elbow with his nose. Acair’s mother looked her over, then turned and walked over to another stool placed near enough the first that easy conversation could be had. She sat, patted the seat next to her, and looked at Léirsinn expectantly.
Léirsinn took a deep breath and went to sit. She looked at her hostess and decided perhaps there were things that could be gotten out of the way first.
“I’m still not sure what I should call you,” she said. “I don’t want to be impolite.”
“I’ve been called many things, but I would hope those sorts of words aren’t rattling around in your pretty head. You may call me Fionne, or Mother Fàs if you prefer. I’ll call you Léirsinn, unless you prefer Red.”
“Mistress Fionne, if that suits,” Léirsinn said carefully. “Given your reputation, I suppose you can call me whatever you like.”
Mistress Fionne looked pleased. “I’ll call you by your name, but don’t think I won’t call you other things behind your back. Now, to answer the questions you aren’t asking about my former lover, he is still alive. One of Sarait’s sons shut him up in a garden and used an extremely dangerous spell to drop all his power down a well and seal it there.” She shrugged. “I always thought Gair would come to a bad end, but that didn’t stop me from having several sons with him.”
“Acair obviously inherited his good manners from you.”
Mistress Fionne laughed heartily. “And so he did, though his pretty face comes from his sire, it must be said. I’d pay good money to see you manage my youngest son the way I’ve just watched you manage the shapechanging beastie in that stall. My maternal instincts prevent me from smothering Acair in his sleep, so I fear the task of bettering him—or doing him in, actually—falls to you.”
Léirsinn wasn’t sure if she should laugh or weep. “Indeed,” she managed.
“Indeed,” the witchwoman of Fàs said. She slid Léirsinn a sly look. “Do I frighten you?”
“You terrify me.”